The Renegade Cowboy Returns

Chelsea was about to reply, wanting to head off the explosion she could tell was about to blow from Gage, when the screen door opened and her mother blew in.

“Hello!” Moira Myers exclaimed. “Goodness, the wind is picking up out there!”

Cat stared at Chelsea’s mother, shocked, it seemed, by someone else’s appearance taking center stage. Moira was dressed in hot pink from head to toe, from her sparkly tennis shoes to her calf-length skirt, to the short-sleeved sweater with a pink poodle on it. She even had on hot pink lipstick. Her white hair stood out in cotton candy tufts from her head, liberated from the plastic scarf she usually wore on windy days. In her hand she carried a cage with two lovebirds in it.

“What are you?” Cat asked.

“Cat!” Gage finally exploded.

“Mum, come in,” Chelsea said, going forward to hug her. “You look lovely.”

“She looks—” Cat began, swallowing her words on a yelp. Gage seemed to finally have had enough of his daughter’s sassy mouth.

“Fiona Callahan helped me pick this out. Do you really like it, Chelsea?” Her mother smiled beatifically. “I love shopping with Fiona. She’s so much fun! She made me feel ten years younger.”

“Mum, this is Gage Phillips,” Chelsea said, “and this is his daughter, Cat.”

“Hello,” Moira said, shaking each of their hands. Cat actually offered hers, either because her father had gotten it through her head that he was about to make her life miserable, or because surprise at Mrs. Myers’s appearance had rendered her temporarily unable to carp. “It’s so nice to meet you! And how pretty you are, dear,” she told Cat in her lilting Irish accent. “Would you be so kind as to step outside and get my suitcase off the porch, please? You look like such a nice, bonny lass indeed.”

To Chelsea’s surprise—and Gage’s too—Cat went to retrieve the bag. “There, now,” Moira said when she returned a second later, “let me see. I know I’m forgetting something. I’m always forgetting something, aren’t I, Chelsea, love? Oh, I know,” she went on, not waiting for Chelsea to answer. Chelsea would have said she’d never known her mother to forget anything, but Moira didn’t seem to need any response. “This is for you, dear,” she told Cat, handing her the cage with the two beautiful lovebirds inside.

“Really?” Cat took the cage, astonished. “I mean, I don’t like birds. I hate birds. I bet they’ll give me allergies.” She stared at them, seemingly fascinated. “They’re ugly. And it’s stupid to have things in a cage.” She looked at her father. “Can I keep them?”

Gage looked at his daughter with some exasperation. “If Mrs. Myers has given you a gift, Cat, then I think you should say thank-you. And then you should ask Miss Myers where the best place to keep them would be.”

Cat glanced worriedly at the two women. “Um, thank you,” she said to Moira, as if she wasn’t certain how to express gratitude.

“Let’s find your bedroom upstairs. That will be a lovely place to keep them, I’m sure,” Chelsea said, starting up the stairs. Cat followed, not protesting any longer, carefully carrying the birds so they wouldn’t be jostled.

Thanks, Mum, Chelsea thought. Once again, I have a feeling you saved the day.

“This is my room?” Cat asked.

“Yes,” Chelsea said. “I think your birds would be comfortable right here near the window. Not too close to feel the sunshine, though.”

Cat gently set the cage on the shelf near the window. “Your mom is weird.”

Chelsea smiled. “My mother is eclectic. I like that about her.”

Cat looked at her. “You like your mother?”

“Of course. Why wouldn’t I?”

“I don’t know.” The teen shrugged, watching Chelsea warily as she sat down on one of the twin beds. “You’re not supposed to like your mother.”

Chelsea smiled. “I love my mother. She’s my best friend.”

“Wow,” Cat said, “you’re a bigger loser than I thought.”

Chelsea smiled again. “I’m going back downstairs. If you’re hungry, join us. I need to get my mother settled in.”

“I don’t want to join you,” Cat said, following her down the stairs. “I’m only coming because my dad says I have to.”

“That’s fine,” Chelsea said. She was pleased to see Gage and her mother seated in the front room, chatting comfortably. He seemed genuinely interested in her, and Chelsea told herself that anyone wearing that much hot pink had to make people smile. “Mum, can I get you some tea?”

“You can, daughter.” Mrs. Myers excused herself and followed Chelsea into the kitchen. “Quite the fun situation you’ve got going here.”

“I suppose so. It’s really just going to be me and you, though. There’s a lovely creek, and the town is so pretty—”

“I think you’re going to have your hands full.” Moira took the teacup Chelsea handed her, drinking appreciatively. “Ah, no one knows how to make a proper tea except you, daughter.”

“You taught me everything I know, Mum.”

Cat came into the kitchen, obviously hungry but not wanting to seem as if she was. She glanced at Mrs. Myers’s cup. “If that doesn’t have eye of newt in it, could I have some?”

Chelsea laughed. “You never know around here, Cat. You’ll have to go on faith.”

Cat took the cup she handed her, slurping it down quickly.

“Oh, she’s hungry,” Moira said. “Chelsea, where are your manners, love? Bring out the frog-toes cookies and give some to Cat.”

“Gross!” the girl exclaimed.

Chelsea shook her head. “Mum,” she gently remonstrated, handing Cat a plate with three cookies on it. “There’s more, but you don’t want to ruin—”

“My mom said this was going to be a backwater and that I’d probably have to eat some gross stuff, but I’m not eating frog toes,” Cat said. “And you can’t make me.”

“These are homemade chocolate chip cookies, and you don’t have to eat them if you don’t want to.” Chelsea smiled at her.

“You’re both weird,” Cat said, snatching the plate. “Why’d you say there were frog toes in the cookies?” she asked Moira.

“You mentioned eye of newt,” Moira said, her tone pleasant. “Which of course brings to mind Shakespeare’s Macbeth. You know it, I’m sure. ‘Eye of newt, and toe of frog, wool of bat, and tongue of dog…’”

“My mom is not going to be happy that I’m living with a bunch of weirdos,” Cat said, taking out a tongue piercing and laying it on the side of the china plate. “Mmm, these are pretty good.” She seemed pleased by the cookies, eagerly polishing them off.

Gage hadn’t come into the kitchen. Chelsea figured he’d probably run for the hills, or maybe to the library for a How To Be a Father on the Fly parenting book. “Will you take this plate to your dad, Cat?”

Cat looked at her. “I don’t—”

“Sure, and that’s a good girl, now,” Moira said. “What a lovely lass you are, Cat.”

Cat took the plate and left the kitchen, looking bemused, if not surprised, at the praise.

“Now I see how you got me through my difficult teen years,” Chelsea said. “Have I ever apologized for being a handful?”

“Chelsea, love,” Moira said, sipping her tea, “if anything, you’ve always been an angel. I owe you apologies for saddling you to a life that wasn’t like the other girls’. You could have done a lot more, if you hadn’t had me—”

“Mum!” Chelsea exclaimed. “Don’t say it!”